


Pumpkin Seeds

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, Mpreg, Sequel, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-09
Updated: 2011-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:34:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There's no need for explanations. That was stipulated on the coupon.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pumpkin Seeds

A/N: This fic is the sequel to _Seeing Things Through_. It is not necessary to have read that fic, but there is a reference to it in this one.

 

 

Peaceful moments like this were so rare. Sherlock had found a book that actually interested him, and was reading it cover to cover -- typically, he used books for reference, and was only interested in a few pages at a time. John had no idea what the book was about, as Sherlock would not take his eyes off the page long enough to tilt the book so John could see the cover.

With Sherlock out of the kitchen and occupied on the sofa, John could clear away the clutter and cook some gnocchi -- like any modern gentleman, he had learned how to make one dish very, very well. 

“It’s just about ready,” John called out when the dumplings were floating to the surface of the water. “Come to the table.”

Shockingly, he needed only repeat this command three times before Sherlock finally obeyed. Sherlock brought the book to the table with him, like a child would bring their favourite soft toy.

“Pity they executed him,” Sherlock said. “He was fascinating. I could have stopped by to visit him, when I was in Florida.”

John looked at the book jacket: _Ted Bundy: Conversations with a Killer_.

“Do you know how they captured him?” Sherlock said conversationally as John scooped gnocchi onto their plates. “After he escaped from prison in Colorado, he fled thousands of miles, to Michigan and then down to Florida. But they tracked him down through his trail of credit card purchases. He stole cards all along his route, and used them to buy two things: petrol, and socks.” Sherlock tapped the book. “He goes on and on about how much he loves the feeling of new socks. If he were able, he would wear each pair only once, then throw them away.” Unable to resist, Sherlock picked up the book, flipped to a particular page, and read: “‘I am _sick_ when it comes to socks.’ This from the man who was convicted because his teeth matched the bite mark on the left buttock of a dead university student.”

“It’s becoming clearer every minute why you’re interested in this bloke,” John said between bites.

“He was quite the specimen. A genuine sociopath. He was also a necrophiliac.”

John pointed with his fork. “Hey. What have I said about discussing necrophilia at the dinner table?”

“You had said no discussing necrophilia at the _breakfast_ table.”

“ _Sherlock_.”

When he’d finished eating, Sherlock pushed away his half-full plate and said, “I’d like thirty minutes to digest, please, and then you may present me with your coupon.”

“I --”

“Don’t bother playing coy. I saw the edge of a piece of paper sticking out of your back pocket. Normally, you are not in the habit of carrying anything in your back pockets, in case someone on the Tube has light fingers. The dimensions of the paper are consistent with the note I wrote, and if your special dinner effort is any indication, you must be planning on springing something quite bizarre on me.”

“You mean you haven’t worked out what it is already? I cooked dinner because it was convenient to cook dinner this evening, not to butter you up.”

“Interesting choice of words. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to my book. Thirty minutes.”

At 221B, there was no “You cook and I’ll wash up.” Sherlock returned to the sofa, leaving the dishes on the table for John to deal with.

When precisely thirty minutes had passed, John marched up to Sherlock and presented the coupon to him like a man defeated. Sherlock looked up from his book, plucked the coupon from John’s hand, folded it once, and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “Sit,” he said.

John did so, and, embarrassed, began to whisper in Sherlock’s ear, just as Sherlock had done for him a few weeks before.

When he was finished, he leaned back and looked at the floor, saying aloud, “I don’t know why. It’s not something I actually want to happen. Certainly not to you.”

“No need to explain.”

“And I don’t want you thinking this is something I’m obsessed with. It just pops into my head from time to time.”

“I said there’s no need for explanations. That was stipulated on the coupon. I would, however, like another thirty minutes to think about how to approach this situation.”

After ten years of being resigned to his fantasy never being fulfilled, waiting thirty more minutes suddenly seemed an age. “I’ll go for a walk, then,” John said. “Be awkward if I stayed here.”

Sherlock said nothing. He was already deep in thought. John departed.

Sherlock understood that everything in life was about sex -- except for sex itself, which was always about something else. Usually power. A man would want wealth so he could increase his sexual opportunities, and then a woman would have sex with that man so that he might provide her with wealth. An impotent man would strangle women to feel powerful, while an executive would pay a dominatrix to make him scrub her kitchen floor with a toothbrush in order to feel powerless. Occasionally, people were even motivated to have sex for reproductive purposes. 

There was a time when Sherlock considered all that to be very dull and predictable, but now he had John, and the subject had become much more interesting to him. He spent twenty-seven of his allotted thirty minutes pondering why John would ask for the thing he asked for, and when John returned from his walk, he’d narrowed it down to two reasons, and felt prepared to proceed.

Before John had the chance to say anything, Sherlock approached him and embraced him warmly. John had been in the park; he had a leaf in his hair. Sherlock smiled and picked it out.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” he said, nuzzling John’s neck. “Let’s go upstairs.”

John chose to take them to his own room, as he still associated Sherlock’s with the little favour he had done for Sherlock. Sherlock was passive again today, but in a different, more tender way. He asked John to undress him and lay him down on the bed. He pulled John on top of him, and they began to kiss, which they had not done before. 

The lubricant had been stashed by the bed; John fetched it and gave Sherlock a slow, gentle preparation. Sherlock watched every move he made intently, waiting for the perfect moment to speak. It came when John had finished getting Sherlock ready, but had not yet attended his own erection.

“John.” Sherlock placed a hand on John’s arm, and gave him a tentative, hopeful look. “Let’s not use a condom tonight.”

This was nonsensical, as they were not in the habit of using condoms in the first place. But John understood, and appreciated the added touch. “But we can’t do without. What if you got...” He couldn’t use the word.

“Yes, that could happen. But I was thinking I might want to.”

John’s face was bordering on panic. Until this moment, he had obviously never expected that he would be able to act this out with someone, and now that it was happening, it appeared that he only remained alive because he couldn’t decide whether to die of happiness, embarrassment, or arousal.

“If you’re absolutely sure,” John said slowly.

“Yes.” He wriggled beneath John, as if that would convince him. “Please.”

Sherlock found this arrangement of their bodies more appealing than the way they’d done it before, though that position had suited the mood better. Now, he could watch John, which was both entertaining and educational. He liked the way John’s body moved as they made love. His biceps flexed, his shoulders rolled, his abdominals clenched, his thighs quivered. He was using every muscle in his body to find just the right stroke, and when he found it, employ it over and over for Sherlock’s pleasure. All of that had nothing to do with their current situation in particular; it was obviously just habit for John, a technique borne of patience and practice.

“Do you really want to...?” John said.

 “Oh, yes.” Sherlock held John tighter. “I know it would be difficult at times. I’d be ill for a long while, in the mornings, and you’d have to care for me. Then later, I’d probably become ravenous. I’d want to eat everything in sight, and you’d need to make sure I was fed properly. And later on you might even have to bathe me, if I became obscenely lazy.”

John had closed his eyes, and was likely imagining the things Sherlock described. His thrusts became faster and more generous. “Yes,” he said. “I’d feed you up good and proper.”

Sherlock continued, “And of course it wouldn’t be long before everyone would know. You and I will show up at a crime scene, and all the Yarders will see me, unmistakably gravid, and they’ll know what we’ve been up to. They will know then, that I’m yours.”

“Yes.”

“And when they see my condition, they’ll be forced to think of you putting me in it.”

John was achingly close now. “I want them to know,” he said, his eyes still squeezed shut. “I want them to know you’re mine. I put it in you and it’s mine.”

Sherlock tilted his pelvis invitingly. “Then do it, John. Give me a baby.”

The words, never before uttered aloud for him, knocked the breath from John. “I will. God, I will.” He started to come, gasping, “I’ll put a baby in you.” 

And he did his best to make good on his promise, pumping Sherlock full of his seed, even as he was crying out weakly and folding in on himself with mortification. 

Sherlock held him tight, not letting him curl up too tightly. “Yes, good, just like that, _oh_ ,” he said, with light fondness. 

John propped himself up on his hands and opened his eyes. Sherlock’s expression was languid and affectionate, although his belly was dry, and he was still erect.

“You didn’t finish,” John said.

“We can worry about that later. This was about you.”

John gently disengaged, rolled to Sherlock’s side. Sherlock kept his legs up, hugged his knees to his chest.

“What are you doing?” John put his hand on Sherlock’s knee.

“I’ve got to stay like this a while, to keep it in.”

John’s stomach dropped. He wondered how long Sherlock was planning to carry on like this.

As Sherlock stared at the ceiling, he said, “My earliest memory is of a garden party at our home when I was four. One of our mother’s friends attended, and she was very pregnant. Mycroft would have been eleven. He was just as infuriating then as he is now; he told me that the reason her belly was so big was, she’d been eating pumpkin seeds. He warned me that if one ate too many pumpkin seeds, sooner or later a pumpkin would grow in one’s belly, and that’s what had happened to her. So I boldly approached the woman, who was sitting with a large group, including my mother, and I pointed at her belly and declared, quite loudly, ‘I know what you’ve done!’”

When John finally got his laughter (and subsequent tears of laughter) under control, he asked, “What happened then?”

“My mother said I wasn’t allowed to attend another one of her parties until I could learn not to be rude to guests.”

“How long did that turn out to be?”

Sherlock slowly lowered his legs, but remained on his back, still looking up at the ceiling. He said, “I’ll have to let you know.”


End file.
